Harry Potter and the Twist of Fate
by Rhapsody Belle
Summary: ON HIATUS. When Albus Dumbledore receives a mysterious letter shortly after the Dark Lord's defeat that tells him of Sirius Black's innocence and where to find proof, no one can know the sweeping changes this effects in the timestream. AU.
1. Foreword

**HARRY POTTER AND THE TWIST OF FATE**

**Author's Foreword and Disclaimer**

This story would not have been possible if I hadn't stumbled across an ingenious little fic called _Harry Potter and Fate's Debt. _If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it; it's archived with FanFiction (dot) net. I spent two days reading the various chapters, and it got my mind working. Credit where credit is due; Intromit had this idea before I did, and it's his work that inspired me to put my own twist onto it.

Harry Potter and all canon material are copyrighted to J.K. Rowling. The characters and universe are used here without the knowledge and/or consent of the copyright holders. No profit or personal gain is intended from the writing of this fic. Original characters, should there be any (though highly unlikely is still possible) are the property of the fanfic's writer.

A piece I wrote earlier today, entitled "Penance" can be viewed as a pre-prologue to _Twist of Fate_, or it can be stand-alone in the canon universe. It is the reader's choice, as I have my preference and you all have yours.

Enjoy. : )


	2. Prologue: The Warp and Weft

**Prologue: The Warp and Weft**

The weeks after James and Lily Potter died were relentless battles with Ministry officials and memorial services. The Dark Lord had been vanquished, but the fallout and subsequent cleanup required a great deal of attention. Families were shattered, lives were forever altered, deaths had to be accounted for, and memorial services had to be planned.

First and foremost was the matter of young Harry James Potter. Though he was by no means the only subject the Headmaster had to make a decision on, he was by far and large the most important. Not only did Dumbledore have to question his decision for a suitable environment in which the tiny Boy Who Lived could be raised, there was also the disposition of the Potter estate to take into account, and that estate was formidable at best. There would be meetings, many meetings, with the goblins of Gringott's, in order to establish some sort of proper authority and administration over the Potter's substantial wealth.

On the heels of the Potter situation came the matter of Alice and Frank Longbottom. Unlike Harry, little Neville still had relatives with which he could be placed. Augusta would pull his beard out hair by hair if he attempted to pass her grandson off to one of Frank's brothers, or Alice's mother, but the formalities to be observed. Given that both Frank and Alice had named their beloved Headmaster the executor of their estate, there was much in the way of paperwork to fill out. He expected Augusta would have full legal and financial control over the Longbottom vaults by Christmas at the latest; until then, it was still his responsibility to manage.

The Potters were not the only ones who needed a memorial service planned, nor were they and the Longbottoms the only parents to name him executor of their estates. Too many families had seen their loved ones taken away in the fight against the Dark Lord, and the dead numbered in staggering amounts. At last count, there were no more than seven ministers of the Church of Merlin left alive in all of Britain; they would be horrendously overworked overseeing the Last Rites and traditions for the individual families if something wasn't done about it. Dumbledore supposed he could send away to France and Germany to plead for relief assistance, but he doubted any would come from those quarters. They'd been notoriously absent in their support during the long, hard war. There was no reason in the world they should change their minds now.

Too many Death Eaters were still at large as well, and he could hardly expect the Ministry of Magic to prosecute every single one of those they'd captured or those who had come forward. Well, he _could _expect it, but he would probably have better results expecting the island to break away from the European continent and drift until it came to rest somewhere warm and tropical. The old families, those like the Malfoys and the Parkinsons, had far too much influence and pull within the bureaucracy. If Lucius Malfoy saw a full day inside a cell in Azkaban despite the overwhelming and irrefutable evidence against him, Dumbledore would eat the Sorting Hat.

Then, there was the case of Sirius Black. Still at large, and being hunted down by some very angry, vengeance-minded Aurors who had idolized and adored James Potter. Sirius had been one of their number as well, and their sense of betrayal was understandable. Dumbledore, for all his age and 

wisdom, couldn't wrap his head around it himself. He was a fair hand at Legilimency, and never had he read deceit or falsehood in Sirius Black's thoughts. To his best knowledge, Sirius Black had been absolutely devoted to the Potters and their son. He couldn't fathom what would cause him to turn against his best friends in the name of family and purity, two things he'd been running from his entire life.

Yet the evidence against him, much like the evidence against Lucius Malfoy, was irrefutable. Sirius had been the Secret Keeper for the Fidelus Charm laid upon the cottage in Godric's Hollow. Voldemort would not – could not – have learned of its location without the Secret Keeper's full and willing knowledge.

Albus Dumbledore sighed and removed his half-moon spectacles, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He hadn't even delved into the responsibilities of his position of Headmaster at Hogwart's. He'd filled the position of Potions Master rather cleverly, he thought, but he still had yet to inform the other professors, many of whom were still reeling over the loss of too many friends and family members. He was not looking forward to their reaction when they discovered he'd hired a Death Eater to that position.

_At least the boy is applying himself_, he thought, and reached across his desk to pull up the syllabus Professor Snape had dropped on his desk not two hours ago. Four three-foot parchments outlined each year's proposed course in small, clean script, neatly stacked from first to seventh. An additional three one-foot sheets for additional supplies. A request to include additional textbooks from the school's stores, covering material Slughorn's original course lists had neglected.

More work, in other words.

He would promote Minerva, he decided all of a sudden, and began sorting the various piles of paperwork into those he could delegate versus those that required his personal attention. Minerva would make a fine Deputy, and would cut through all of the bureaucratic nonsense that so bogged him down with her stern and unwavering efficiency.

He picked up the parchments he planned to set into her capable hands and left his office with them. The halls, so often filled with chatty and noisy students moving between classes, dormitories and study groups, were eerily silent. His sound of his footsteps did not echo from the walls as he expected, but were solemnly swallowed up by the stone floor. It left him feeling a bit unnerved as he reached Professor McGonagall's office.

The door was slightly ajar, candles burning to ward away every shadow despite the early morning hour. Minerva was slumped across her desk, rubbing her temples, a stack of papers at her left elbow with her fearsome red-feathered grading quill atop them. Her hair, normally severely pulled back into a bun, was wispy and coming loose, framing her face and emphasizing the lines under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Dumbledore hesitated, feeling a small pang at the extra responsibility he was about to heap upon her.

"Come in, Albus," she said without looking up, and Dumbledore did so. Neither of them spoke a word as he took the very seat every single one of her students feared, the one across from her own at her desk, and settled the pile of parchments in his lap.

"Minerva," he said after long moments of silence had gone by. "Has there been any further news?"

She only dropped her head further, then gestured at the paper folded neatly on the corner of her desk. Dumbledore picked it up, noting it was today's edition of the _Daily Prophet. _He spread it out, and was shocked to see the news of Sirius Black's capture.

He read the whole story in trepidation: by all accounts, Sirius Black had gone mad and attacked the last of his closest friends in broad daylight on a Muggle street in London. Twelve Muggles were reported as having been killed in the final blast, along with Peter Pettigrew. The reporter added that the largest piece of Pettigrew's body able to be found was his little finger. Sirius Black had been remanded into the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and was awaiting a trial that was warming up to be swift and merciless.

He could only stare in disbelief at the pictures accompanying the piece, of Black snarling and nearly foaming at the mouth as he was led away in chains. How had he come to this? How had he sunk so low? How had they completely missed his treachery?

"How, Albus?" McGonagall asked suddenly, unnervingly voicing the same questions he was asking himself. "How did we miss Sirius Black in our midst? He'd been privy to every secret. He was hailed a hero after he turned his back on his family for their ideals. He was…" Her voice broke, and she couldn't continue. She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes distant and hazy for a long moment. "How did we miss him, Albus?" she said again.

"I don't know, Minerva," he replied sadly, folding the paper and replacing it on the corner of her desk. "He had us all fooled, myself included."

She smiled, a tired, humorless smile. "I thought you were a Legilimens."

He nodded. "I am. That is what disturbs me most. I was not the only one within the Order of the Phoenix as well. You know as well as I do that we all routinely screened the thoughts of every member, even ourselves. I myself submitted to Diggorus Frewer's less than tender ministrations in order to set the example. For Sirius Black to fool not only one, nor two, but three talented Legilimens is nigh unprecedented." He paused, then offered, "Perhaps it was something other than willing betrayal. Veritaeserum, perhaps. Or he may have been under the Imperius."

It was like he'd pulled the lid straight off Pandora's box. McGonagall exploded in rage, slammed her hand down onto her desk, the blow making several ink pots and transfiguration materials leap and bounce. "The Fidelius doesn't work that way!" she roared, and the rest of her hair unraveled from its bun, flaring around her face like a lion's mane. Her eyes flashed and her face flushed. "You cannot just use veritaeserum on a Secret Keeper and expect them to come up with the address! You cannot use the 

Imperius curse and expect them to reveal all! The Fidelius _protects_ those who have sworn to it! He had to have been willing! He had to have! It just doesn't work any other way!"

"Feel better?" Dumbledore asked quietly, and held her out his tin of chocolate crickets. Minerva dashed angrily at the tears streaming down her cheeks and shoved her hand into the tin.

"No, I don't," she snapped, and ate a couple of the treats. The chocolate did its work a moment later, smoothing out the angry red of her complexion into a more natural hue, and lifting the pain a little from her eyes. "I can't feel good about any of this, Albus. I don't think I ever will. Black's betrayal is too deep to heal from so easily."

"Many of the wounds the Wizarding world has been dealt will not heal so easily," he replied, and popped a couple of his own chocolates into his mouth to calm himself a little. "There are so many dead, and so much to do."

"Which brings us to why you're here," McGonagall said.

He nodded with a smile. "Exactly. With so much responsibility with various estates and dispositions of properties and dependents, my calendar is seeming quite full for the foreseeable future. If you're agreeable, I'd like to promote you to the position of Deputy Headmistress, with all rights and responsibilities therein." He paused for a moment, picking up the sheaf of parchments from his lap. "Are you agreeable, Minerva?"

She eyed him for a minute in silence, then blew out her breath in a deep sigh and nodded. "I am agreeable," she answered shortly, and held her hand out for the documents.

Dumbledore handed them over with a relieved smile. "You'll need greater access to the wards, as well as a copy of all the keys and passwords I currently possess," he said. "I'll see that you have them no later than the end of the day."

Whatever her reply was going to be was cut off by the low hooting of an owl. Both of them looked up in time to see an elderly snowy owl descending with an envelope lashed to its leg. McGonagall arched an eyebrow curiously, but that curiosity quickly turned to alarm as the condition of the owl became apparent.

The owl, badly burned and missing enough flight feathers to make anyone wonder how it'd managed to stay aloft at all, landed neatly on the edge of the desk before falling over. Blood immediately began pooling on the Transfiguration papers. The head turned to Dumbledore, the great golden eye pierced his own, and it hooted piteously.

"I'll send for Grubbly-Plank," McGonagall said suddenly, and stood up from her chair to make for the door. Dumbledore ran a finger over the owl's head. It hooted at him again, insistently this time, and clawed at the desk with the leg holding the envelope.

"I see it, little friend," Dumbledore said soothingly, and reached to untie the letter. The owl hooted once again, sounding relieved. Its body slumped and the light went out of its eyes. "Minerva…" Dumbledore began, but got no farther before the owl's body dissolved into ambient light and free magic.

McGonagall returned to stare at the spot where the owl had been, then raised disbelieving eyes to Dumbledore. "Albus?"

He leaned forward to touch the place the owl had been. There wasn't so much as a feather or a drop of blood to indicate there'd been a messenger owl there not one minute ago. "I don't know, Minerva," he admitted, then looked down at the envelope in his hand.

It was aged and yellow, slightly seared around the edges and liberally spattered with blood. The front had only his name, _Albus Dumbledore, _inscribed on it in messy block letters that seemed strangely familiar and yet not at all at the same time. Intrigued, he turned it over and his breath caught in his throat.

The back of the envelope was sealed with a blob of wax, into which the Potter family crest had been pressed.

McGonagall gasped, her hand flying to her throat. "Is that..?"

He nodded, and slid his thumb under the seal. "The Potter family crest, which only the heir of the bloodline is entitled to use."

"James?" The question was quavering, her voice catching on the name. "Did James send this?"

"I don't think so," he said and pulled the note out. "The writing is similar, but it's not his. It's far too neat. Perhaps another Potter survived." It would certainly make him revisit his decision to place young Harry with the Dursley family if it were true.

It had fared far better than the envelope had, with only a bare few faint scorch marks along the edges. The note was written in the same hand that had addressed the envelope, and was short and to the point.

_Sirius Black was not the Secret Keeper_, the note read. _Peter Pettigrew was. Sirius did not kill him; Peter faked his own death. You will find him with the Weasley family, posing as a pet rat named Scabbers. He is a Death Eater._

McGonagall sat heavily back down in her chair, her expression dazed. "Well now," she said distantly. "That changes things."

Dumbledore nodded and folded the note back into its envelope with great care. "Indeed it does," he agreed. For the first time this week, he felt a surge of hope. "If it's true, we owe Sirius a very large, very heartfelt apology. Perhaps we should pay the Weasley family a visit. Post-haste."


	3. Prologue II: The Burrow

**Prologue Part II**

**The Burrow**

_November 22__nd__, 1981_

The Burrow, of Ottery St. Catchpole, was one of the curiosities of the village. Or rather, it would be if notice-me-not charms and other assorted bits of hodge-podge magic didn't prevent the Muggles from realizing it was there. Despite its oddness – and even amongst wizards, it was very odd – it was a warm, homey place that bespoke generations of love and family.

Dumbledore had always liked the look of the Burrow. It was ramshackle, true enough, but it was the sort of place that gave off the aura of being welcoming. He wasn't sure if it was the tottering chimneys, or the expansive, gnome-infested garden. Perhaps it was the way the stories of the structure were piled willy-nilly on top of each other, not seeming like it should be possible they hold together, but clinging to each other despite the odds.

The Burrow was a good metaphor for the wizarding world, Dumbledore thought as he let himself through the gate and began the walk up the path to the kitchen door. The house, by all rights, should have toppled over decades ago, magic foundation or no. It was rundown and ramshackle, bits and pieces from disparate places taken and added on with no seeming care for fundament or fashion. Yet it was a place of love and friendship; many of the ancient and drafty pureblood estates, noble and proud, could never dare say the same.

Excited shouts and laughter drew his attention to the rear of the house, and curious, he made his way around. The twins, barely out of toddling and wearing sweaters with their first initials on them, were chasing something around in the grass. They seemed fascinated by it. Charlie, nearly eight, was carefully and studiously polishing his broomstick. It looked like a Safesweep, a broomstick made by the Cleansweep Company for younger children, enchanted to fly no more than ten feet above the ground.

Another redheaded boy, this one quieter than the others and wearing glasses, sprawled against a tree near the porch with a thick book. From this distance, it was hard to make out the cover, but Dumbledore thought it might have something to do with cauldrons. _That would be Percival_, he thought. It was hard to keep so many of the Weasleys straight after successive generations of large broods had come and gone through his school.

Molly Weasley, looking pale and drawn, sat on the porch with the youngest Weasley child – Ronald, if he recalled correctly – in her lap, keeping careful eye on the rest of her brood. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her cheeks were somewhat gaunter than he recalled them being.

Molly half-rose from her rocking chair, alarm in her eyes as she watched him come up to the porch. "Headmaster!" she gasped. The baby in her arms, disturbed by her movement, began to cry. There was real fright on her face, even as she started rubbing the baby's back soothingly. "Middle of the school term – _what's happened to Bill_?"

It was only then that Dumbledore remembered the deaths of her two older brothers at the hands of Death Eaters a few short months ago. Their loss would still be fresh in her memory, and he winced inwardly at his forgetfulness.

"Calm yourself, Molly," he said reassuringly as he mounted the steps. "Nothing so dire. William is doing splendidly. A solid Gryffindor, if ever there was one. Adventuresome, true, but bright and hard-working. He is a credit to both you and Arthur."

Relief flooded Molly's face, and she settled back in her chair. The rubbing became a rhythmic pat as she began rocking. "You gave me a fright, Albus," she said with a nervous laugh. "After Gideon and Fabian, well…" She trailed off, looking lost in memory for a long moment.

"My apologies," Dumbledore said quietly. "I never did come by properly to offer my condolences."

Molly started, then shook her head dismissively. "It's of no matter, Albus. You've had a lot on your mind. A lot was happening, and I know Gid and Fabian wouldn't have wanted anyone to make a fuss over their passing." Her smile turned misty. "They never did have a lick of sense between them."

"Still… If there's anything I can do…"

Molly wiped at her eyes with her sleeve and smiled. "Bless you, Albus. You've always been a good friend to our family. I wish—" She broke off, her attention snapping to behind Dumbledore where her children were playing. Her finger leveled in their direction like the hand of Merlin, shaking sternly at them in turn. "Fred! George!" she roared. "Put that gnome down this instant and get his socks out of your mouths!"

The twins yelped as the command barked out and dropped the lawn gnome, who went skittering back into the thick hedge, howling dire threats at the entire Weasley clan. "I'm Fred!" tittered the one with the "G" on his shirt.

"I'm George!" added the twin wearing the "F".

"I don't care who you are! Leave the gnomes alone!"

"Sorry mom!" they chorused, and ran off to torment Charlie, who was now chasing a toy Snitch about the yard on his broomstick.

Molly sighed and sat heavily down again. "Those two will be the death of me," she said with a hint of amusement in her tone. "Just think, only seven more years and they're your problem as well."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'll look forward to their first year."

The silence that fell was comfortable. "If there's nothing wrong with Bill, and there isn't anything dire happening – as I imagine the _Prophet _would have reported on it if there was –"

"Why then did I come to visit?"

Molly nodded, eyes sharp and on him. The worry hadn't faded, just dulled a little.

Dumbledore smiled and removed his tin of lemon drops from his pocket. They weren't quite as good as chocolate crickets, but they were far easier to procure and, unlike the crickets, other people took them when he offered much more readily. "I came to speak with you and Arthur about a matter that has recently come to my attention."

Molly started. "Arthur? He's at work at the moment. Due home in…" She glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen through the open door. Dumbledore followed her gaze, noting the Weasley family clock on the wall. Only two pointed to a location other than Home. One was Bill's, indicating he was At School. The other was Arthur's, and it was pointed at Travelling. "Well, soon," she finished. "I'd best get dinner laid out. I'll be just a moment, Headmaster."

"Take your time, my dear," he replied. "I'm in no great hurry. It would be best if I spoke to you both at the same time, in either regard."

She pulled her wand from a pocket of her apron and made herself busy transfiguring a nearby bush into a suitable bassinet for the baby. It didn't matter how many times Dumbledore watched Molly Weasley perform magic; he was always amazed by the simplicity and perfection of her charms. She'd never done well in theory, but had made her marks with practical. Especially if it came to the more domestic spells, those that made family life and childrearing easier.

"Fresh air is good for you, little Ronniekins," she murmured as she tucked the baby inside the bush-cradle and secured him with a loose bit of vine. "Percy, can you be a good boy and keep an eye on your brother for me? Just come get me if he starts to cry and I don't come out straight away."

"Of course, Mother," he replied with all due seriousness. He closed his book and moved to the steps of the porch. Dumbledore's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to the rat curled up around the back of the boy's neck. He watched as Percy lifted it from his shoulders and settled it in his lap as he made himself comfortable, petting it as he went back to the book.

"That's an intriguing pet, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore remarked, and Percy looked up.

"Isn't he brilliant?" Percy said, lifting the rat out of his lap and holding him up for Dumbledore's perusal. "Father brought him home for me a few weeks ago. He said I was 'sponsible enough to take care of him." He beamed with pride, his chubby face fairly radiating with it. "I take good care of Scabbers."

Dumbledore felt a chill creep down his spine. _You will find him with the Weasley family, posing as a pet rat named Scabbers. _He pushed that to the back of his mind; he couldn't afford to be distracted now. If the rat really was Peter Pettigrew, he didn't want anything at all to spook him until Dumbledore had him well in hand.

"I've never had a rat, Percy," Dumbledore said in conspiratorial tones. "I've had a dog, and a guinea pig, and a kneazle and a few goats in my time, but never a pet rat. Looking at your – Scabbers, did you say? – now, it seems a shame. May I hold him?"

Percy gleefully handed the sleeping rat over, erupting into a excited babble of just how good a rat he was, hardly never biting, taking his food quietly and never, _ever _leaving pebbles around to dirty up the house. Dumbledore listened and nodded at the appropriate places, but all his attention was focused on the rat itself.

The rat appeared to be no more than any garden-variety scavenger one might find in the fields or the Magical Menagerie on Diagon Alley. Brown in color, with dark eyes and thick whiskers. He was interested to note the rat was missing the smallest toe on one foot. Curiouser and curiouser.

In the folds of his robes, he flicked his wand towards the bassinet, muttering a quiet _"Ennervate"_ under his breath. The baby obliged him by waking and immediately howling for attention. Percy's eyes went wide, and he raced for the house, calling out for his mother.

Dumbledore quietly slipped the rat into the robe pocket he'd charmed years ago against anything falling out or escaping as Percy disappeared indoors. He disliked causing anyone – let alone a newborn or a four year old child – distress. Until he could learn the truth of this rat and that note that had arrived so strangely, however, it was best not to take chances.

Especially when there were Death Eaters involved.

Dinner with the Weasleys was a spirited affair. Molly laid out a stunning repast of simple but filling food, roast beef with steamed vegetables fresh from her garden and mashed potatoes. Arthur returned home just in time for Molly to set the last dish on the table, given her a quick kiss on the cheek, and gone to wash up.

The twins had started up a food fight between themselves across the table. When a glob of mashed potatoes splatted on Dumbledore's left cheek, both Fred and George had stopped to stare in horror and abject terror. Dumbledore found it quite funny, for his part. Their mother had been less amused.

A simple _Scourgify_ had cleared up the mess, but their mother would not let them off that easily. As dessert was served, the twins were banished to their rooms to think about what they had done without any of the delicious-smelling apple pie Molly brought from the kitchen.

After dessert was when Percy discovered his pet was missing. After many tearful protests and several parental reassurances that "Scabbers will come back" and "We'll have a look for him, Perce, but it's bedtime now", the greatly disheartened four-year-old was sent to his room to go to sleep. Charlie scampered back outside with his broomstick in hand even before he'd fully finished his slice of pie, leaving Dumbledore alone with the adult Weasleys and baby Ronald.

"I must admit," Arthur said, after they'd retired into the den with cups of tea, "I was a bit surprised to see you here, Albus. It can't be vital, or Molly would have Flooed me to come home when you arrived."

"Not vital, no," Dumbledore responded, levitating the sugar dish to his side and plucking several cubes from the tray. "Important, yes. I had a very odd message reach me earlier this morning. It contained information that concerns me greatly."

He could see the wheels turning in Arthur's head. They'd been staunch supporters of the Order of the Phoenix during the war, but never highly placed within the organization's ranks. Dumbledore hadn't wanted to place them in that position, not with then-six children under eleven and Arthur's Ministry job to consider.

"Is it something to do with the Ministry?" Arthur asked after long moments of mulling.

"It has to do with your family," Dumbledore said gently, and out of the corner of her eye, he saw Molly blanch.

"Have there been threats against us?" she asked, fear making her voice shrill. She clutched Ronald tightly to her, arms around him protectively. "We're considered blood traitors by most of the other old families for not instantly falling in line with You-Know-Who. Have they made some sign they're going to come to the Burrow?" She made as if to stand up. "I'll have to get the children's things packed straight away. I—"

"Easy, Molly." Arthur extended a hand to take his wife's hand, but didn't take his gaze from Dumbledore's face. "If it were something like that, the Headmaster would have told you immediately and not waited until after dinner to break the news."

"If there have been threats made against your family," Dumbledore said gravely, "I have not heard of them. No, I come on a different matter. It regards a pet you recently acquired for young Percival."

The pocket that contained the rat started twitching violently. The rat had moved before, frantically when it realized it was trapped. But now… the movements were closer to true panic.

"_Scabbers_?" Arthur gaped. "Why in Merlin's name would a pet rat be important?" Molly froze in place, looking just as bewildered as Arthur.

"The letter," Dumbledore explained, choosing the roundabout path to answer the question, "arrived by means of a very injured elderly snowy owl that I had never before seen. It was addressed to me in writing that seemed both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time." He produced it from his pocket, and passed it to Arthur. "The owl died and vanished into light and free magic after the note had been delivered.

"As you can see," he continued as Arthur took the envelope to inspect it, "it's sealed with the Potter family crest. I don't think I have to tell either of you how highly irregular that is. You'll find the note inside."

Dumbledore sat back and sipped his tea, paying no mind to the terrified scrabbling in his robes as the Weasleys read over the short note. Arthur's face underwent an interesting conversion from confusion 

to sheer disbelief to outrage as the message sank in. Molly's expressions were much along the same line.

"That's daft," she said, shaking her head firmly when Arthur had handed the note back to Dumbledore. "Albus, you can't seriously be considering this… rubbish! Peter Pettigrew died a hero! His mother was given an Order of Merlin, Second Class in his name!" Arthur was rendered speechless and he looked shaken.

The rat went absolutely wild at the mere mention of the name.

"And yet here I am," Dumbledore said calmly. "I can hardly ignore the message, though common sense would tell me otherwise. And if you consider it, it would explain quite a lot about that night."

"Sirius Black." Arthur's face was ashen. "He's innocent? They dragged that poor man to Azkaban with all the other Death Eaters and threw him to the Dementors!" As if that piece of information gave him purpose, he surged from his seat. "We have to find Scabbers," he said firmly. "Molly, where did Percy have him last?"

"I'm afraid I must confess to stealing Mr. Weasley's pet rat," Dumbledore cut in before Molly could speak. "He has been trying quite hard to get out of my pockets these past few minutes. I do apologize for upsetting your boy, but I felt it necessary to take precautions in case the note's information proved to be correct."

Arthur sagged back into his armchair. "There's one less worry," he mumbled.

Molly stared at him in disbelief. "Arthur, you can't be serious! You think Peter Pettigrew is really a pet rat who hid out at our family's home after faking his own death in order to frame Sirius Black – _Sirius Black _of all people!_ – _as a Death Eater?! I suppose now you're going to tell me that, not only is he a Death Eater and a traitor, he's an illegal animagus too? Rubbish!"

She whirled on Dumbledore. "Scabbers is a rat," she declared. "A rat my son is very much attached to, might I add." She held out her hand imperiously. "I'll take him back to Percy now, and I'll not speak of this nonsense to him. He's been upset enough today."

Dumbledore nodded his acceptance and reached into his pocket to pull out the rat. The animal bucked frantically in his hand, trying to find some purchase to escape. Molly reached out for the rat with a soothing, "There now, Scabbers. Let's get you back up to Percy." The rat bit her deeply, and dropped to the floor as her hand jerked open.

Dumbledore watched the scurrying creature for a long moment, then reached into his pocket, withdrew his wand and said calmly, "_Petrificus Totalus_."

The rat had time for one frightened squeak as his limbs stiffened and robbed him of all movement. Arthur made a move to aid Molly, whose hand was bleeding rather badly, but before he could cross the 

room, Dumbledore flicked his wand again, drawing in all his power and focusing it through his wand. "_Revelio Animorphagus_!" he thundered.

Bright silver light erupted from his wand, encompassing the entire room in a blinding flash of light.

"There!" Molly said as the light died down and vision slowly returned. The rat was still on the floor, and very much a rat. The silver sparkles, the aftermath of Dumbledore's spell, began settling to the floor. "Will you _stop _this nonsense now, Headmaster? There's no way in—"

"Molly…" Arthur said warningly, and pointed to where the rat lay in the Full Body Bind on the floor. His free hand went for his wand.

It wasn't much of a rat anymore. As the silver sparkles were drawing into its receding fur, its body was bulging and elongating. Limbs lengthened into arms and legs, torso and head grew to human size, and a very familiar face emerged from beneath the rat's fur. The man was wearing very rumpled clothing that seemed a few sizes too large for his frame. Released from the Full Body Bind by his forced transformation back to his human form, he could only cough and wheeze and gibber at the sight of Dumbledore and the Weasleys.

Molly stared in abject horror and disgust as the man flopped over on his back with terror plain in his eyes. "You… you…" she gasped, and her hand fumbled towards her apron where she normally kept her wand.

"Hello Peter," Dumbledore said calmly, his wand extended and pointed at Pettigrew. "It's time we had a talk, don't you think?"


	4. Prologue III: The Rat Uncovered

**Harry Potter and the Twist of Fate**

**Prologue Part III: The Rat Uncovered**

Peter Pettigrew was not having a good day.

He thought himself fortunate to fall in with the Weasleys, a wizarding family of no great stature but wide connections to other Light-aligned families. He wasn't intelligent, not at all like Lily and Remus, but occasionally he had a stroke of brilliance. He thought well on his feet when faced with a situation most other wizards would struggle to get out of. He had never been stellar at long-term planning. Which made him all the cleverer in the end, figuring out how to shunt all suspicion off himself and onto another.

When Sirius had found him – not that it was hard, with the trail he'd laid that any blind fool could follow – he thought himself very clever indeed. Sirius was the only other person who'd known about the last-minute switch of Secret Keepers, and it was laughably easy to accuse him in sight of witnesses both magical and mundane, then fake his own death.

Cutting off his own finger had been the hard part, especially since he couldn't risk using magic to do it. A well-placed _Diffindo_ would have done the trick nicely, but the off-chance someone would check his wand with a Priori Incantato would give the entire game away. He'd spent three days cleaning the spells from his wand with simple household charms. No Cruciatus or Killing Curse could be left to brand him a traitor after his "death".

He'd never been fond of the Imperius.

The look on Sirius' face had been absolutely priceless when he'd shouted and ranted at him about how could he do this to Lily and James, your family must be so proud of you. Everything calculated to enrage his old friend. Sirius was a brilliant Auror, but winding him up always made him break his training and make major mistakes, if you could do it properly.

Sirius leaped at him, and he pulled the knife. That threw the Auror off for a moment, but Peter, in all his clever cleverness, simply let fear fill his voice and shrieked that Black was going to kill him, just like he'd killed Lily and James. Getting hold of Sirius' wand was child's play; he'd dropped it in favor of wrapping his hands around Peter's throat.

A whispered – well, with Sirius doing his utmost to strangle him, _wheezed_ might be a better term – Blasting Curse, a simple twist of the knife, and Peter was free to scamper down the nearest sewer grate in rat form, heading for Diagon Alley and his freedom.

The Muggle lives taken, Sirius' freedom, and everything leading up to those events didn't bother him half as much as the loss of his finger.

Finding Arthur Weasley was like a bolt of pure luck from on high. The Weasleys had never been rich, had never been very well-placed, but they had _connections_. They knew people who loved to talk, if the stories of Molly Weasley's knitting circles were to be believed. Setting himself up at the Weasleys was a perfect, logical next step. When Arthur Weasley had given him to Percy as a pet and familiar, Peter wasn't quite so sure it was a good thing. Though it was several years away, being a child's pet meant eventual return to Hogwart's, and he wasn't at all sure his subterfuge would pass by the watchful and all-seeing eye of Albus Dumbledore.

Of course, rats didn't live very long lives, not even the magical ones. If it wasn't working out by the time Percy started school, Peter thought he could just quietly disappear and leave a similar rat dead in his cage.

Three weeks, he'd had. Three whole weeks of being hand-fed and left to wander the house unsupervised. After the first day, he'd quickly learned that Molly Weasley was a force to be reckoned with, and had then after taken himself outside when he needed to do his business. He didn't bite anyone, he didn't steal from the kitchen table or the cupboards – no matter _how _tempting those delectable smells were – and he overall tried to make as little fuss and trouble as possible.

He spent most of his time sleeping, dreaming of the Dark Lord rewarding him with giant wheels of cheese and piles of Galleons for his clever, clever plans. Maybe he'd even have earned a place in the Inner Circle by the time Vol—You-Know-Who returned. He'd been dreaming of that very thing, of seeing Snivellus Snape and Lucius Malfoy bowing and scraping to him as the Dark Lord's right hand, when Dumbledore had simply plucked him from Percy Weasley's hand and tucked him in a pocket.

Panic had set in, the terrifying surety that he'd been caught. Bravery had never really been his forte – he spent nearly five minutes arguing long and hard with the Sorting Hat to place him in the same House as his two new friends his first year of schooling, and it had been less than enthused to announce Gryffindor to the gathering.

He fought to get out of the thrice-damned pocket, but couldn't escape. The game was up now, he was sure of it. But nothing happened for hours and hours. Fear wore his nerves thin, so he settled down for awhile. Surely, he convinced himself, if Dumbledore suspected anything at all, he wouldn't drag it out. Surely, if Dumbledore even had the slightest inkling that Peter Pettigrew was alive and well, he'd have set off to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement right away, instead of lingering over apple pie and coffee in the Weasley kitchen.

He had nearly drifted back off to sleep when the discussion had turned in a direction he knew was leading up to him. He'd fought again to get free, but it had been just as fruitless as his earlier struggles. Now here he was, tossed about and abused, forced into his human form for the first time in weeks. _Exposed_. Trapped like a rat.

The irony was not lost on him.

The three wizards were standing over him, each one with their wands drawn, each wearing a different expression. Dumbledore seemed calm, but Peter saw the spark of anger deep behind the twinkle in his blue eyes. Arthur Weasley was grim and resolute, the look a man who had a distasteful task before him that he would complete come hell or high water. Molly Weasley looked flabbergasted and furious. Her mouth kept opening and closing like a codfish, as if she couldn't figure out what to start calling him first.

"Hello Peter," Dumbledore said. "It's time we had a talk, don't you think?"

"Headmaster!" Peter squeaked, scrambling back until his head hit the wall. His mind raced, trying to think of some way to turn this to his advantage, but the cold sick fear in the pit of his stomach wasn't helping. He'd have to try playing it dumb. "Headmaster! What… what am I doing here? What's going on?"

"_You filthy vermin_!" Molly Weasley had apparently found her words, and her shriek of rage was earsplittingly shrill. He felt a Stinging Hex slap the side of his face as her wand slashed downwards. He yelped in pain and twisted to the side, and just in time too. Another hex, this one a deep, foreboding purple, impacted the wall where his head had just been. "_You were sleeping in my son's bed!"_

She bellowed something that sounded distinctly unpleasant, a greenish light shot from the end of her wand, and Peter's nose started flooding mucus down his chin. He yipped and clapped his hands over his face, but sickly yellow winged … _things _climbed out from between his fingers nonetheless and started circling his face, clawing at his skin.

Gibbering in terror, Peter scrambled to his feet and ran blindly around the room, hands flailing about his head, trying to rid himself of the batlike bogey-creatures. Hexes and mild curses bit into him as he ran pell-mell, stubbing toes on furniture and cracking his shin against the bookcase. The door was tantalyzingly open, and he rushed headlong for it, eager for freedom from the insane woman storming after him.

He heard a snapped "_Colloportus!" _a moment before he slammed face-first into the door -- or rather, the door slammed face first into him as the spell jerked it shut before he could get through it. He went sprawling arse over teakettle, skidding on his back towards the shrieking banshee and clutching his face for entirely different reasons now.

Dumbledore's voice cut through the haze of pain fogging his mind._ "Finite Incantatem. Episkey." _ The things tormenting him vanished and his nose healed with a painless click. He gasped in the sudden dearth of pain and blinked furiously to clear his vision of the white streaks. Dumbledore was standing over him, upside down from his perspective, wand at the ready. He spared a quick, fearful look around the room and saw Arthur Weasley visibly restraining his wife.

"Let me _go_, Arthur!" she roared, making a grab for the wand Arthur was obviously having trouble keeping away from her. "That beast, that vile disgusting treacherous worm was _sleeping in Percy's bed_!"

"Perhaps it's best if we left, Mr. Pettigrew," Dumbledore said calmly, but his eyes were hard behind his spectacles.

"Yes, Headmaster!" he squeaked. "I think that would be best." He cast whatever scrap of dignity he had left aside and scuttled after Dumbledore as the Headmaster moved to the fireplace. Waiting for the fire to turn green, indicating an active Floo connection, felt like a lifetime. Especially with Molly Weasley out for blood and rampaging in the background.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, Chief Executive and Honorable Chair of the Wizengamot and two-time recipient of the Order of Merlin (Second Class, but he liked to leave that part out in conversation; most decent people were too polite to inquire, and it was better if they assumed he received the First Class), stared across his desk at Dumbledore and a man the dotty old Headmaster of Hogwarts claimed to be Peter Pettigrew.

This was something Fudge knew to be inexorably false, as he had delivered the Second Class Merlin medal to the brave lad's mother in person. The Ministry did not make such gross errors as awarding a post-mortem medallion to someone who was not dead; it was simply not done.

Bothersomely, the Identifying Charm had been performed by three of his own Aurors – though only two he trusted implicitly – Dumbledore, and Fudge himself. The completely unfamiliar and rather scraggly chap inevitably idented as Peter Pettigrew. Which was impossible, because Fudge had delivered a post-mortem medal, and it would seem a complete cock-up on the part of the Ministry if that – the post-mortem part, that is – were not true.

Fudge suddenly, desperately wished for a Pain-Relieving Potion as a dull ache began to throb behind his temples as he attempted to find some way to legally disprove Dumbledore's claims.

"Hem hem," came a voice from his doorway, and Fudge inwardly perked up just a bit. If anyone could find a loophole, it would be Dolores. She was like a bulldog with a bit of jerky once she caught wind of a possible revelation of a non-existent Ministry blunder. Setting her on Dumbledore would be a privilege, an honor, practically right up there with the Order of Merlin. (Second Class.)

He rose from his chair and extended his hand to indicate she should take a seat. "Ah, Dolores. You're right on time as usual. Please, do come in. Headmaster Dumbledore, this is Dolores Umbridge, Junior Undersecretary."

Dolores Umbridge floated into the room, and Fudge made sure to discretely avert his eyes. She'd chosen today to wear clothing in the exact shades of cotton candy and Bertie Bott's bubblegum jellybeans. The color gave him mild nausea if he looked directly at it.

Dumbledore rose. "Madame Undersecretary, good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Headmaster," Umbridge replied in a tone dripping with sugar and honey, and settled herself in a chair that most certainly did _not _groan under her bulk. She took another moment to withdraw a slim file from her peppermint-scented handbag, and cleared her throat with a polite little "Hem hem. I understand there is has been a dreadful mix-up." Fudge had seen to briefing her as much as possible in the short note he'd jotted off to have her summoned to his office. He refrained from grinning at Dumbledore, who obviously had no idea what he was in for.

"Why yes, indeed there is," the old codger replied affably. "I assume you've been informed that Peter Pettigrew, once considered dead by the wizarding community, has surfaced once again."

"Headmaster, I hardly think a poor, besotted old man claiming to be a dead war hero warrants the personal attention of the Minister of Magic. That, to me, would seem more of a case for St. Mungo's Hospital than this august office." Umbridge sat back with a pleased smile, primly folding her hands in her lap. She sounded entirely reasonable, but Fudge could hear the subtle suggestion that Dumbledore was wasting her valuable time.

Dumbledore, for his part, appeared to not notice the digs, for he merely smiled with twinkling eyes and replied, "I heartily agree with you, Madame Undersecretary. St. Mungo's Hospital would be the best place to take any man claiming to be Peter Pettigrew."

Umbridge harrumphed with satisfaction and made to set her things away. "I'm glad we're in agre—"

"However," Dumbledore carried on, "I did not say this man_ claims _to be Peter Pettigrew; quite the opposite, in fact. He claims to be anyone _other _than Peter Pettigrew, for if he admits to his true identity to Ministry officials, for that would bring about grave consequences on his head."

"Again, Headmaster, I fail to see why this is a Ministry matter, and not a matter for the very capable healers of St. Mungo's. They're much better equipped to handle the confused. Perhaps their Magical Mishaps department can—"

"Eleven Identifying Charms cast by seven different wands belonging to one House Witch, several prominent Aurors, myself and your own Minister of Magic have acknowledged the man currently being held by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to be Peter Pettigrew."

"The man, poor soul that he is, must have some sort of Fuddling Charm on him to fool so many spells. Peter Pettigrew is dead, Headmaster," Umbridge shot back, though her tones did not change from sweet and kindly. "Perhaps it's best we leave him to his peace. Now, I think we've wasted quite enough time on this matter, and—"

"The Unspeakables have cleared him of all pre-existing enchantments, Charms, spells and artefacts." Fudge wasn't quite sure what changed, because Dumbledore certainly hadn't moved a muscle. His expression was still genial and his eyes were still twinkling.

Yet the balance of power in the room had just shifted, noticeably so. The slightly dotty old Headmaster was gone, and in his place was the one wizard He Who Must Not Be Named ever feared to face. Fudge decided suddenly he had an inkling of why that was, and surreptitiously tried to keep his knees from knocking together under his desk. Umbridge gulped in a very unladylike fashion and stared at Dumbledore.

Who merely smiled at them in return.

"Minister, I'd like you to personally look into these matters," said the very frightening wizard now sitting across the desk. "The information that has come to light indicates that it was Peter Pettigrew, not Sirius Black, who was the Potters' Secret-Keeper, and that it was Peter Pettigrew, not Sirius Black, who betrayed their location to Lord Voldemort."

Fudge flinched back at the name of the only being to ever make him wet himself since he'd grown out of nappies. Umbridge gave a sound like a cross between a bullfrog with a fly stuck in its craw and a lady's delicate gasp and (very childishly, Fudge thought sourly) clapped her hands over her ears.

"If this information proves to be correct, the case of Sirius Orion Black will have to likewise be reopened. I imagine this will bring to light some very unpleasant business in the records of the capture and trial of Mr. Black, especially for the Ministry's lack of compelling evidence toward his conviction." Dumbledore leaned across the desk, and there was something behind that damnedable twinkle that Fudge found made him want to reach for the nappies all over again. "The Ministry will weather these unfortunate discoveries, Cornelius," he said. "Or the Wizengamot will convene to learn why."

"Completely understood, Headmaster," Fudge stammered, wide-eyed. "Yes yes, terrible unfortunate events. Perhaps we acted too rashly after the loss of two of wizarding society's favorite members. The Ministry will take full responsibility for this dreadful error. Full apologies will be made. Full apologies."

"I trust it will," Dumbledore said, and the scary man was replaced by the doddering Headmaster once again. "I thank you for your time, Minister, and I'll take my leave. You must have a very full schedule after giving me so much of your attention."

It wasn't until long after Dumbledore had left the office that either Umbridge or Fudge were able to breathe again properly. It was only then that Fudge noticed the tin of lemon sherbets Dumbledore had left on the edge of his desk.

Like a treat given to a favorite pet after it had performed some particularly clever trick.

The irony was not lost on him.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Sirius Black, heir to the Ancient and Noble House of Black and allegedly the most hated traitor in all of wizarding Britain, wasn't sure how long he'd been imprisoned when the Aurors finally came to get him. He remembered clearly the first day and part of the next, and then time lost all meaning for him as the presence of the Dementors overwhelmed his mind with their malevolence.

Days – years, maybe? – passed while he sat in the deepest, darkest corner of his cell, rocking back and forth with his arms tightly hugging his knees to his chest, reliving his most awful, horrific memories over and over again. From deeper down the cell block, he could hear the tortured gibbering and hysterical, half-mad laughter of the other inmates. Once, on one of his better days, he thought he recognized the high, clear giggle of his cousin Bellatrix. But since Bellatrix played a vital role in several of his worst recollections, he passed this off as a trick of the mind.

Over and over again, he lived through the events he'd tried his best to forget or ignore had ever happened. He was four years old again, watching his father slap his mother in a fit of rage. At six, his blossoming magic had gotten out of his control and destroyed a priceless Black family heirloom. For the first time – but certainly not the last – his father had raised a hand to him in anger. Regulus' frequent beatings at the hands of both parents, for not being Slytherin enough, for not being Black enough. The massive row he'd had at eleven with both parents when he'd been Sorted into Gryffindor. Andromeda, the only cousin who'd ever been worth a damn, being formally and finally disowned by the entire house because she chose to marry a Muggle-born wizard instead of the _toujours pur_ scion of the Carrow family dear Mum had picked out for her. That final argument after Regulus died that resulted in Sirius leaving home once and for all, his mother screaming that she "burned one Black off the family tree" and don't think she'd be lenient because he happened to be her son.

And James and Lily… oh, James and Lily. They haunted him as surely as if their ghosts were dogging his every step.

His memoires of the Potters stood out in clear relief to the others. Some memories were sharpened by immense pain, others hazy with forced forgetfulness. But every moment he'd ever shared with Lily and James was as crystal and as vivid as if he'd only experienced them yesterday. When he could think without the haze of the Dementors clogging his brain, he thought it must be because, no matter how happy some of those memories were, they all caused him suffering because he knew those times would never come again. Ever again.

So when the Aurors came for him, he was sobbingly, pathetically grateful. He clutched at their shoes with his filthy hands, scrubbed at his face with his dirty rags and begged to be given the Kiss so his torment could end. He'd never been as soul-deeply afraid of anything before, but now… Now the Dementors were his ultimate boogeyman.

"On yer feet, Mister Black," one of the Aurors told him as he pulled his foot away from Sirius' grasping fingers. "And no funny business, y'hear? We're to take you before the Wizengamot. Appears you've been given an appeals hearing."

He heard the words, he intellectually understood them, but fundamentally could not comprehend how they should apply to him. He'd betrayed James and Lily as certainly as if he'd been the Secret-Keeper himself. He couldn't have betrayed them more deeply by convincing them to switch Fidelius-bound oathmates at the last second if he'd gone straight to Voldemort and turned them in himself.

He was cleaned up, dressed to resemble some part of his life before Azkaban, and sat in the chair in front of the entire assemblage of the Wizengamot. He hazily felt three drops of – something – being placed in his mouth and he swallowed reflexively. Then everything came spilling out, every aspect of the tragedy for which he felt responsible. "Everyone's going to assume it's me," he mumbled, staring at his hands. "No one would ever suspect Peter Pettigrew, weak tagalong thing that he is. Everyone knows he only got through Hogwarts because of Remus and Lily; why would anyone ever suspect him

He did notice Amelia Bones cast a questioning glance to the two men who flanked him. He saw their shakes of the head from the corner of his eye. But again, he didn't see how it affected his punishment in any way.

So he was very shocked to learn that the Wizengamot cleared him of all charges, issued a formal apology and made a very humble restitution towards his being and estate. In a whirlwind that confused him as much as it frightened him, he was reinstated as the Heir of the House of Black, given a very large sum of Galleons as a partial apology on behalf of the Ministry of Magic for his unlawful and detrimental imprisonment, and set free.

His stay in St. Mungo's Hosptial went a long way towards helping him ease back into society, though he'd only been incarcerated for a little over a month. One Healer in particular, a bright young thing who called herself Cygna Longbottom, told him he was very, very lucky to only have a moderate case of Dementor Syndrome as she poured absolutely vile concoctions down his throat and forced him to feel better against his will.

By the time Dumbledore came to visit him, he'd had more than enough time to collect himself and catch up on the news of the wizarding world, filtered though it was through the _Daily Prophet._ Remus had not made himself a stranger, desperately and sorrowfully sitting beside Sirius through the worst of the deleriums until the Healers had finally thrown him into a ward room of his own to sleep off his stress and malnutrition.

Sirius was not pleased at all to learn that little Harry, his godson, was living with Petunia and Vernon Dursley, negligent, jealous and bigoted Muggles that they were. He hated them fiercely, if for no other reason that, upon first meeting them at Lily and James' wedding, he thought there might be some truth to the old family traditions of Muggle-baiting. And he hated anything, anyone, that even briefly made him think of agreeing with his Ancient and Noble line with a passion.

Dumbledore had good reasons to want Harry under blood wards, and Sirius couldn't really disagree with his choices there. Lily had passed a very old and powerful protection to Harry when she'd sacrificed her life for him, and Sirius would not risk Harry's safety, not even for his own pride and stubbornness. He argued the point with Dumbledore, of course, citing multiple incidents Lily had told him about her sister and brother-in-law that would turn a Grim's fur stark white, but Dumbledore was adamant that the protections would only hold while Harry was under the roof of someone with his mother's blood.

So Sirius had stopped arguing and started planning. A purpose gave him new life, new determination. And as soon as he was able to get out of bed, he did three things. The first was accept a teaching position at Hogwarts, from which he'd be able to keep an eye on Harry while he was at school. The second was to arrange long vacations through which he could befriend his young nephew in the guise of Padfoot, to make sure he was being properly treated at the Dursleys.

And the third was to take Healer Longbottom out for a very romantic dinner the night he was discharged from the hospital.


	5. Interlude: What Dies Inside Us

**Harry Potter and the Twist of Fate**

**Interlude: What Dies Inside Us**

_"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." - Norman Cousins_

Lucius Malfoy had an undeserved reputation for being hasty and brash, which was simply not true. He was Slytherin to his core, far more Slytherin than several other prominent Death Eaters he could name. Slytherin enough to temper his ambition with patience. Rome hadn't been built in a day, as the Muggle saying went. While Lucius did not often put stock in anything that came out of the Muggle world, he had to admit that proverb had certain panache, a philosophical wisdom, attached to it.

Nothing worth doing should be done hastily, his father had often told him, and if any man knew the wisdom in patience, it was Abraxus Malfoy. Lucius had learned that lesson well. Everything was carefully considered, weighed out on the dual scales of desire versus insight. He thought of as many of the consequences of every decision before he made it. Then, and only then, would he make an informed decision. Even when Voldemort had been recruiting heavily from the Slytherins of his year, Lucius had held his judgment. Only after Lucius had pondered every possible permutation of the simple yes or no question of joining the Dark Lord's gathering forces had Lucius taken his place at Voldemort's feet.

The varied answers to that question were simple, but carried incredible repercussions and risks no matter what choice he ultimately made. Even after he'd chosen to lean heavily for joining the Dark Lord, he took his time deciding. He plotted out the Ministry response should Voldemort fail in his conquest of wizarding Britain, and laid theoretical contingency plans to protect himself and his interests should that come to light. He knew down to the last Knut how much it would cost to buy his freedom, and allocated a sizeable portion of his fortunes as a just-in-case plan.

Risk versus benefit. It was just good business.

But never in all of Lucius' computations and contingencies had he envisioned the business end of a poisoned dagger in the darkest corner of Knockturn Alley being his ultimate prize.

If only that miscreant Muggle-loving blood traitor Sirius Black had to common decency to remain locked up like the mangy mongrel he was... The Black family fortunes were a welcome addition to the Malfoy finances, especially in the wake of all the Galleons Lucius had spread around to … _encourage _officials to believe him when he claimed he'd been under the Imperius curse the entire time he'd been in Voldemort's service. He'd badly underestimated how much his freedom truly cost, and his finances had foundered badly before the Ministry handed control over the Black vaults to his wife, Narcissa, as the last heir of the family legally entitled to them.

But no. Peter Pettigrew had buggered up his comfortable retirement at the Weasleys' home, and Sirius Black was a free man, with all rights and entitlements. Like the right to his bloody inheritance.

While he was indulging in wishes, he wished dear old Walburga had burned Sirius right off the family tapestry like she'd done to Andromeda. Like she'd threatened to do to her son the day he'd walked out of Grimmauld Place and gone to live with the Potters.

The Malfoy family had been beggared by fate and circumstance, forced to sell their most prized family heirlooms just to keep themselves in the comfortable lifestyle to which they'd become accustomed.

The first to go had been the silver candlesticks his ancient and illustrious ancestor Kevus Malfoy had given his bride upon their wedding day far back in the tenth century. The next thing was the family clock, a marvel of early thirteenth century magical engineering. One by one, piece by piece, Malfoy Manor was hollowed out and torn apart. Sold piecemeal to pay for Narcissa's wardrobe, Draco's upkeep and Lucius' wines. Each trinket, each artefact, each irreplaceable piece of the Malfoy family history Lucius sold took a little piece of himself with it.

Only after the last of the salable Malfoy trinkets had been bartered away did Lucius even consider the possibility of trading the Dark artefacts given to him for safekeeping by Voldemort. Like every major decision in his life, Lucius pondered long and hard, mulled it over night and day, until the monies from the sale of the prototype flying carriage designed in the 1500s by Ataxia Malfoy had dwindled down to nearly nothing.

Finally, Lucius reached the conclusion that the Dark Lord was not coming back, certainly not anytime soon anyway, and it would be safe enough to auction the vials of virgin blood, the enchanted Muggle items and the various other bits of nasty the Dark Lord had secreted in the hidden room under the Manor's drawing room floor.

His first mistake had been to not go to Burke and Borgin's. Devio Borgin was a sour man and tightfisted with his coin, though not nearly as bad as his oft-silent partner. Borgin would have given him a third of what each item was truly worth, then packed him out the door as quickly as possible. But Burke knew the value of a customer, whether buying or selling, and would have showed him at least a modicum of lip service respect.

His first mistake, however, paled in comparison to the second one he made. He trusted Rufius Notte, and it was a fatal misstep.

So in the end, it came to this. An ignoble end, in the darkest deepest shadows of Knockturn Alley after bartering his pride and his family name away, rewarded for his efforts by a poisoned dagger to the kidney and a thief he'd thought was as much of a friend as one like he could have making off with the diary of Tom Riddle.

Lucius sighed and closed his eyes as lethargy swept over him. The hand clutching the gaping wound in his side slipped a little as his fingers went numb. He distantly wondered what would happen to Draco when he was gone, if Narcissa would raise him as a Malfoy, or if she would revert to her maiden name as was her right as a widowed pureblood. With no money left to her name, would she bow her proud head and beg her hated cousin for assistance?

_Let Draco be a Malfoy_, Lucius prayed to whatever higher powers existed.

It was his last thought as the shadows of the alley swept over him and bore him under.

oOoOoOo

**Author's Note**: Just a short update for you; I'm still working out most of the kinks for the real beginning of the story. I do apologize for this taking so long, but my computer exploded and I had to wait awhile for my new one to ship. Thankfully, it's here, and I can get back into the swing of writing.

Also, updates might be a little slow next month, as NaNoWriMo is quickly approaching, and I intend to give it a real shot this year. We'll see how long my resolve holds out though. ;)

**Coming Up Next: **Chapter 1 - Birthdays, Friends and Letters

_Harry was six the first, last and only time a social worker ever came out to the Dursley home on 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey to check up on him. Mrs. Bathurst was a proper lady, greeted him as he answered the door in Dudley's oversized castoffs with a chipper "Good morning!" and offered him her hand. Harry, already a scrawny child with poor eyesight and no corrective lenses, squinted at her and half-hid around the door, eyeing her outstretched hand like a dog would eye the boot that keeps kicking it._


	6. Chapter 1: Wish Fulfillment

**Harry Potter and the Twist of Fate**

**Chapter 1 – Wish Fulfillment**

_July 31__st__, 1987_

It was a pure scorcher of a summer so far, with temperatures soaring well into the high 90s and nary a cloud to offer even brief moments of respite from the beastly heat. Harry didn't mind so much; it gave him the opportunity to avoid his relatives, who invariably grew surlier and nastier the hotter the day got. Though Uncle Vernon had long since gone off to work, Aunt Petunia had set up camp in the living room with a glass of iced lemonade, her battery-powered fan and her morning soaps, and Dudley was hiding in his air-conditioned room with his personal television.

Harry knew if he stayed in the house, he'd only make himself a handy target for their irritability at the heat, so when his aunt snapped at him to go outside and weed the flowerbeds, he went without protest. He stopped in the kitchen long enough to fill a battered plastic bottle with water from the tap, and then he was gone.

He wasn't permitted to wander away from the property, though he wasn't sure why. Dudley, when he could be bothered to leave the house, was allowed to go where and when he pleased. In less-than-charitable moments, Harry thought it was because his aunt and uncle knew that their portly son would never go so far away that he couldn't make it home in time for dinner.

Harry knelt in the flower bed and busily swiped at the weeds with a hand rake, uprooting the undesirable plants and tossing them to the side. Sweat plastered his hair to his face and he had to brush his bangs out of his eyes with every second weed he pulled from the soil. It was hard-going; the dryness of the air stole the very moisture from his mouth, and he had to take a break before he was even done with the first lot of plants.

He retreated to the shade and relative coolness of the porch, fanning the neck of his oversized tee to try and catch some breeze on his face. Already panting from such little exertion, he gulped down several mouthfuls of water, and then poured some over his head to try and cool off. It was only partially successful, as the arid air dried him quickly. He sighed and looked back out over the front yard. Aunt Petunia had a lot of flower beds, and he'd hadn't even finished the first one yet.

_It's either this, or go back inside with Aunt Petunia and Dudders,_ he thought glumly, and stepped off the porch into the full force of the sun again, heading back to his work. Sometimes, he dearly wished that some unknown relative would come in and pluck him from the Dursley home, take him to a huge house with a yard and a dog and maybe some clothes that fit properly and a room that he didn't have to share with anyone, not even spiders.

_While I'm at it, why don't I wish for a pony and a million pounds and my dead parents back too?_

An hour later, he had refilled his water bottle half a dozen times from the hose, not willing to go back inside long enough even to use the kitchen sink. Harry plopped down in the swing on the porch, figuring he'd done enough of the garden to warrant a break. It wasn't as if Aunt Petunia were going to move from her chair anytime soon to check up on him, after all.

A low ache throbbed in the front of his head, a solid indication that he'd been in the sun too long. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the swing, splashing water over his forehead and cheeks, and wished that he'd thought to grab one of Aunt Petunia's old straw hats from the coat closet before he came out.

When Harry opened his eyes again, there was a pretty, brown-haired woman in a blue sundress coming up the driveway with a shaggy black dog trotting along beside her. Harry frowned in puzzlement, since he was sure she hadn't been there a moment ago and he saw no strange car along the road, even as he made to slip into the house hopefully unnoticed. He didn't think his aunt had any company coming over this morning, but she never allowed him anywhere near visitors, and it was better to be safe now than sorry later.

He was about to slip over the side of the porch and make his way around to the back door when he heard the woman call out to him. Inwardly, he winced. Far too late to escape. Resigned to his likely fate of being locked in his cupboard without any dinner, he turned around and pushed his broken glasses further up on his nose.

"Hello there, lad!" the woman said with a bright grin. The way her entire face lit up with warmth and laughter gave Harry the impression she was a smiling sort of person. "I'm looking for a Harry James Potter, who lives at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," she continued, consulting a clipboard in her left hand that Harry could swear he hadn't seen a moment before. "This is 4 Privet Drive, so I must be in the right place. You wouldn't happen to be Harry James Potter, would you?"

Harry returned her smile a bit nervously. No adults ever came here looking for him and, having no experience with it, he wasn't at all sure what to do now. After a long moment of deliberation, he decided he may as well tell the truth. "Yes, ma'am," he said politely. "I'm Harry."

"Excellent, excellent Mr. Potter," the woman said with another big grin, and Harry felt bathed in the sheer warmth and friendliness radiating from her. "May I call you Harry, lad?" she asked, and he nodded. "Thank you, Harry. My name is Mrs. Cygna Black, and this mangy mutt here," she added, indicating the black dog, sitting beside her still as a statue except for the madly-waving tail, "is Padfoot." The dog barked twice, high pitched and excited, and Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"It's nice to meet you," he replied, then risked getting bitten to hold out a hand to Padfoot. The black dog bounded up the steps and began licking first his hand and then his face. Harry laughed again, deciding then and there that he liked Mrs. Black and her overly friendly dog. "He's brilliant," he said with a smile as he stood up. Padfoot gave one last lick at his cheek, then flopped down across Harry's feet with a long, deep sigh.

Harry stared down at the dog as it continued to lay there, overheating his feet and impeding his movement. He found he didn't mind hot feet so much, as it made it much easier to close his eyes and pretend the dog was his. "I've always wanted a dog," he blurted, so suddenly he surprised even himself. "But my aunt and uncle always said I wasn't responsible enough for a fish, let alone a dog."

Mrs. Black looked thoughtful, but her smile didn't waver. "And what do you think, Harry? Do you think you could look after a dog? They do take a lot of work, you know. Feeding, bathing, taking them out for walks. Cleaning up whatever mess they leave behind. It took me months to properly housetrain Padfoot there," she added with a wink, and the dog looked sharply up at her as if offended.

Harry shook his head in the next instant. Dogs didn't get offended, he reminded himself. "I don't mind hard work, ma'am," he replied, reaching down to scratch behind Padfoot's ears. The dog gave another one of those huge, heaving sighs, replaced his head on his paws and thumped his tail against the floorboards of the porch.

"I'm sure you don't, Harry," Mrs. Black said. "I bet you're the kind of boy who does his chores straight away, cleans his room and helps out his ... aunt, you said?.. every chance he gets."

"Yes ma'am," he replied automatically, still scrubbing at Padfoot's ears. The dog, for his part, seemed very content to soak up the attention. "I'm a very hard worker, ma'am."

"What kinds of chores are you responsible for? If I may ask, that is." Mrs. Black winked conspiratorially at him. "You see, I have a little girl at home, and I'm wondering what kinds of things I should be looking at assigning her as chores in the future. Do you take out the trash, help with the washing up after meals, that sort of thing?"

"Yes, ma'am," and had he been thinking properly, not distracted by the dog and his delight in having one near, he would have stopped there. But he wasn't thinking properly, so he carried on. "I also cook breakfast and dinner, mow the lawn, do the laundry, look after the flowers when Aunt Petunia isn't feeling up to it, straighten up after company's been over, and sweep and mop the floors every morning and night."

"I see," Mrs. Black said, and there was something in her tone that made Harry look up at her with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Her smile hadn't faltered, but that didn't make the feeling go away. "That's quite a lot of work for a child your age. You must be very responsible indeed to be trusted with so many chores. I suppose you've got a nice nest egg saved up from your allowance, then?"

Harry chewed on his bottom lip, trying to figure out how to answer that one. Finally, he settled on, "No, ma'am," and left it at that. Hopefully, she'd think he spent it all on candy and comic books, like Dudley did.

The tactic seemed to work, for she changed the topic. "I like your outfit, Harry," she said, and Harry glanced down at himself in surprise. He was wearing Dudley's hand-me-downs, everything two sizes too big, and trainers that had more holes in the soles than rubber. "I understand that baggy clothes are becoming something of a fashion trend among kids your age."

"Well... these are my cousin's old clothes, ma'am," he said.

"Ahh, I see. Are you wearing them to work in the garden?"

Harry squirmed. "Err... no ma'am. When Dudley is done with them, they're handed down to me." He bit his lip, then rushed ahead to ask, "Ma'am, I don't mean to be rude, but why are you here?"

Mrs. Black smiled again, but there was something different about the smile. There wasn't any humor in it, though it did serve to make him feel slightly better. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said gently. "I guess I forgot to mention. I'm here on official business. You see, we've had a few complaints filed at the Department of Child Services, and I've been sent out to check up on you. I'm sorry if I mislead you, but I wanted to get a feel for you before I fully introduced myself." She paused and glanced up at the house. "Might your aunt be home, Harry?"

oOoOoOoOoOo

If the floor could open up and swallow Harry that very minute, he would die happy. He shuffled from room to room behind Aunt Petunia and Mrs. Black with his head down, listening to every word as Mrs. Black asked some hard, probing questions about why Harry had to sleep under the stairs when there was a perfectly good bedroom filled with nothing but junk upstairs, why he had no clothes his own size, why he appeared so scrawny and half-starved when the other boy of the house obviously enjoyed large and frequent meals, why there were no pictures of him anywhere, and why Harry had to do so many chores on killingly hot days while everyone else relaxed in the cool of indoors.

Aunt Petunia tried her best to justify it to Mrs. Black, but her responses were flustered and stammering, and Harry didn't think at all that Mrs. Black was buying a word of it. Aunt Petunia, since he'd come inside with Mrs. Black, had a perpetual look of panic on her long face, and her hands hadn't stopped fluttering around her throat and mouth throughout the entire tour. She was off-balance enough that she didn't even comment about the dog following behind Harry like a silent guardian.

"Well, Mrs. Dursley," Mrs. Black finally said as they came to a stop in the living room, and Harry noticed that she wasn't smiling anymore. She had lost that expression somewhere between the closet and the upstairs bedrooms. "It appears as though you've been wilfully neglecting Harry's health and happiness, close enough to the very point of child endangerment that I can begin a full inquiry into your actions, or rather, inactions. The last time I checked, Mrs. Dursley, Britain still frowns on child slavery in any form or permutation."

"But... I... You..." Aunt Petunia spluttered, and her face turned from white and pinched to a sickly ash-green at Mrs. Black's words. She reached out to grasp the chair and leaned heavily on it. For a second, Harry was certain she was going to faint.

"Not to mention," Mrs. Black breezed on, ignoring his aunt's half-intelligible interruption, "it also seems that you've been grossly neglectful of your own son, ignoring proper dietary nutrition and health concerns. I do not have the power to set an inquiry into the welfare of your son on my own authority, Mrs. Dursley, but you may be absolutely certain that I will be passing along a few choice recommendations to my colleagues in Muggle Child Services who do have such authority."

"You..." wheezed Aunt Petunia, and she sat down very suddenly when Mrs. Black said the word: "Muggle? You're one of _them, _aren't you? You're not actually from Child Services," she hissed.

"Oh no, Mrs. Dursley," Mrs. Black said with a very sharp smile. "I _am _from Child Services. The Department of Magical Child Services. We've had quite a lot of complaints about your treatment of your nephew from wizards and witches who've been keeping an eye on them. Or did you think, dear, that the wizarding community would entrust you with the Boy-Who-Lived and leave you to it without anyone looking in on him from time to time?"

"Take him then!" Petunia suddenly shrieked, surging out of her chair to toe off with Mrs. Black. Harry shrunk back; he'd seen Petunia in this kind of rage only once before, and that had resulted in a near hit with a cast iron frying pan. The color flooded back into her face, turning her cheeks an unflattering shade of purple, and spittle flew from her mouth. "I never asked for the freak to be dumped on my doorstep! Take him and his abnormalities and be _done_ with it!"

For her part, Mrs. Black seemed completely unfazed by his aunt's behaviour. "You may be very certain we shall do just that, Mrs. Dursley," she said calmly. Padfoot moved forward to stand beside Harry, watching Petunia intently. The dog bared his teeth and growled low in his throat.

Petunia spared one frightened look at the dog, but she sounded like she'd been saving up years for this one single outburst, and not even a hostile animal could dissuade her from continuing. "My dratted sister and that... that _husband _of hers had the nerve to get themselves blown up and saddle _me _with that unnatural boy! I never wanted him in the first place. _Wizards. _Turning teacups into rats and with pockets full of frog-spawn . Foist him off on another unsuspecting woman if you like! Just take him from my house and get him out of my sight before he sets the house in ruins with his 'accidental magic'!" Petunia's mouth twisted sourly as she spoke the last two words.

A long silence fell afterwards, and it was almost like everyone was afraid to move. Petunia stood with her hands fisted in the throw on the back of the chair, cheeks red and eyes bright with anger. Mrs. Black and the dog looked at each other, and looked back at Petunia. Harry edged around to stand in sight of his aunt, swallowed hard, and spoke.

"You... you told me my parents died in a car crash," he said.

Petunia laughed, a short bray of sound that had nothing to do with humor. "Of course I told you that," she snarled. "What was I supposed to say, that she'd gone off and gotten herself killed by one of her own lot? Witchcraft has no place in this household, boy, no matter what you turned out to be."

"Witchcraft?" Harry gasped. "Mum was a witch?!"

Aunt Petunia opened her mouth, no doubt to say something nasty and cruel, when Mrs. Black cut her off with a stern look. Aunt Petunia glowered at her, but Padfoot took another, menacing step forward, and the low growl rose in pitch. Aunt Petunia backed off with a cautious look at the dog, and Mrs. Black turned to Harry. "There'll be time for all those explanations later, dear," she said gently. "Why don't you go collect your things, dear? Your aunt and I have some paperwork to finish up."

And so it was that Harry Potter found himself with a small bag full of Dudley's cast-offs, the few toys he had salvaged and repaired from his cousin's piles of broken things, and the single, well-worn copy of _The Secret Seven _his favourite school teacher had given him the end of last school year, being ushered out the doorstep.

He didn't know what Mrs. Black said to Aunt Petunia while he was packing his meagre belongings, but she looked quite ill and worried. She didn't say a word as Harry shuffled past, just eyed him the way she'd been eying him for years: like something to scrape from the bottom of a shoe.

Mrs. Black and her dog were waiting for him near the front door. The smile had returned in full force, and she held a hand out towards him. "Are you ready, Harry?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am," he said, and stepped through the door back out into the heat. Mrs. Black followed behind him, the dog silent once again beside her. It wasn't until they were halfway down the street that he realized today was his seventh birthday.

"Wicked," he whispered to himself with a wondering smile he couldn't contain.

"Did you say something, dear?" Mrs. Black asked.

"No ma'am," he replied, but kept grinning as they walked.

This was undoubtedly the best birthday present he'd ever gotten.

oOoOoOoOoOo

**Author's Note: **Thanks for all your positive reviews of the story thus far. They are greatly, greatly appreciated. I do apologize for the lateness of this update, but there have been some further issues with my computer, and then the holidays were upon my family. This update isn't as long as I would have liked, and I'm not at all sure I like the ending, but this is what I have written. So it is said, so shall it be done. :)

Comments, criticisms and constructivity are always welcome in my inbox.


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